As the grey of early dawn revealed the mountain ridges and glens, it also showed the state of I’ve Already Eaten. The battlegriff was clearly tiring and in distress. His feathers were scorched, and spattered with congealed blood; his right wing had been badly burned by falling brimstone and, to Root’s alarm, scorched wing feathers kept falling out. His left hind leg had also been peppered with splinters of wood, scoring deep furrows across his once glossy flanks. Exhausted, Quenelda had no healing power left to treat the battlegriff before they had left the sanctuary of the combs. Root and I’ve Already Eaten were on their own!
Root had been plagued by doubts ever since they had taken off. What if they got lost? What if the battlegriff hit one of the pine trees whose tops they were barely clearing? What if he had misunderstood Quenelda’s instructions? What if the Lord Protector’s men intercepted him? Without map or compass, Root was no longer sure where he was; he only knew that the Brimstones were slowly fading away behind him. But was he heading for the Sorcerers Glen?
‘Oh, tooth and claw!’ Root mumbled the litany over and over again. ‘Earth guide us safely home. Please …’
A pearly dawn mist hugged the floor of the glen as he took out his telescope and anxiously searched the sky, dreading to see the red adder on black. A few clouds and a scattering of dragons, but nothing nearby – no sign of the SDS arrow formations.
‘Come on, boy, we can make it!’ Root encouraged I’ve Already Eaten, saying the words out loud to bolster his own confidence. But his voice sounded thin and weak in the silence, and only served to emphasize how alone he was.
Gnome and battlegriff had to put down almost every bell to drink and rest. I’ve Already Eaten caught a pigeon and an inattentive heron, and Root scavenged a handful of blackberries and some hazelnuts. The Dragonspine Mountains of the Sorcerers Glen loomed slate-blue in the far distance. As dark trees and white frothing rivers passed slowly below, Root knew that he might not reach sanctuary for many days, perhaps weeks, even if the weather held. Would Stormcracker survive that long? The picture of Quenelda sobbing beside a dead dragon made him sick with worry as he urged his stricken mount up into the air once again.
Then a sudden gust of wind caught them and the battlegriff was blown sideways. The air warped, and a huge Imperial Black shimmered into view just above him, great talons curled barely strides above his head. Root almost fainted with relief.
Quenelda wept until exhaustion took her. Magic never worked out the way she intended. It was as if the harder she tried, the more elusive and uncontrolled her fledgling powers became. She simply did not yet have the strength or knowledge to heal her father’s battledragon’s many wounds. Bound by baleful spells these many moons, the dragon’s own magic was exhausted. His injuries were too great and he was too weak. Nestling within the curve of Stormcracker’s neck, she slept deeply on through the night and into the next day. She woke, bleary-eyed and dry-mouthed, to find a fading yellow sliver of daylight streaming in through the fissure on the far side of the cave. She ate some of the salmon and oatcakes donated by the miners, and drank water from the freezing lake. Stormcracker hadn’t moved, but his eyes were open. Quenelda fed him the last meagre meal of brimstone then sank down beside him.
She lost track of time. Daylight. The dark of night again. Sleeping, waking, sleeping …
Fading daylight seeped through the cavern. Torchlight flickered dimly on the cave walls behind her, growing with the sound of footsteps … and voices – Root’s, and the deeper vowels of Tangnost, and a third Quenelda couldn’t identify. Then she remembered, and the tears began again. She had found Storm, only to lose him again. They were coming to put him down. She stood, head pressed against the dragon’s, listening to his shuddering heartbeats until Root ran over to her, enfolding her in a hug. His head was bandaged, but he was warm and had colour back in his cheeks.
‘I did it!’ Root was jubilant. ‘Quenelda, I did it! Tangnost’s here. The SDS are coming too! They let me fly ahead on a scout dragon by myself, just like my father! I’ve brought some field rations for Storm too – here.’
His joy was extinguished when he saw Quenelda’s pallor.
‘It’s all right! They’re not going to kill him! They are going to take him back to Dragon Isle! They have a cradle …’
‘A cradle?’ Quenelda turned in confusion as Tangnost arrived. ‘I don’t understand.’ She was ready to weep again.
Whatever Tangnost had been going to say died on his lips when he caught sight of the exhausted dragon, and even in the gloom of the cavern Quenelda could see the colour draining from his face. Instead, he only said, ‘Yes, he will be carried in a cradle by four Imperials. They are outside, at the foot of the waterfall. Do you think he could manage to glide down to where they are? We have a surgeon with us.’
Quenelda nodded.
‘Then we must cover his eyes. If he has spent ten moons in the mine, even the afternoon light will blind him.’
His companion, a young dwarf scout, beads braided in her dark hair, held up a heavy canvas hood with leather straps, as if asking Quenelda’s permission.
‘You will have to guide him.’ Tangnost added.
They will cover your eyes, Storm. To protect them from the light …
But I do not want darkness …
One-Eye says you may damage your eyes if you do not cover them, and then it will always be dark. This is only until we reach the combs of Dragon Isle … We must go through the water one more time, but I will guide you … Can you open your wings one last time so that we may glide down to where they await us?
The great dragon raised his head wearily. I will try, Dancing with Dragons …
Root watched in horror as the injured dragon burst through the waterfall. Quenelda was struggling to raise Stormcracker’s head to prevent a headlong rush to destruction upon the boulders below. He knew she would be using her growing powers, but they were not yet strong enough to come to the battledragon’s rescue; he tumbled down as awkwardly as a new-born fledgling, before landing heavily on the ground.
Exhausted, Quenelda looked around the wide glen; at the grey slabs of craggy rock that jutted out from the base of the mountains, and the scree-covered lower slopes. Yellow gorse hedged the margins with a splash of colour.
With a chirrup of greeting and two swift bounds, a smaller Imperial darted forward to wrap Stormcracker’s lacerated body in her own. Crooning softly, Soft Footfalls in the Air entwined her neck around his, raising his ruined head from the ground. The suppurating sores that marred his dull hide looked hideous compared to the brilliance of her scales; a sight that moved even the battle-hardened SDS troopers to tears of outrage.
Tangnost looked at the dragon with horror and doubt as they struggled to get him to his feet and furl his crumpled wings, wondering if he would ever grow strong enough to shed his old skin. If he couldn’t, he would never fly again.
‘Here …’ The dwarf wrapped Quenelda in a warm cloak. ‘Come and look.’ He led her over to where a dozen engineers were unloading heavy equipment.
An SDS Major strode over, his armour blending into the growing shadows. ‘Major DeMontfort.’ He saluted Quenelda. ‘Third Battalion Queen’s Armourers. If you’ll accompany me, Lady, I’ll show you what we’re going to do.’
Seeing her quizzical look as his crew rolled out a huge net and clipped it to four heavy chains, the major explained that it was a spider dragon net. Quenelda was still confused, and shook her head, trying to shed her own cobwebs. ‘I don’t understand. What are you doing with it?’
‘We call it a field cradle,’ the major went on. ‘It’s an idea your father came up with for returning injured dragons who could not fly from the battlefield, making use of your idea for critical-care cradles. It will be clipped onto a special harness on the escort Imperials.’
He led them over to the four dragons resting on the ground, pointing out the unusual harnesses and traces. ‘I suggest you just rest with Stormcracker until we’re ready for him.’
Quenelda nodded, and returned to the dragon’s side: the surgeon was feeding him some field rations from a nosebag. Chirruping softly, Soft Footfalls in the Air urged him to eat more, cleaning his wounds with her rasping tongue.
The surgeon smiled at Quenelda. ‘He’s as ready as we can make him. Can you command him forward?’
Stormcracker followed Quenelda blindly into the padded centre of the net, his lowered nostrils almost tickling her head.
‘I’ll stay with him, keep him calm,’ she said. Dusk was not far off now – she could hear the blackbirds calling in the thickets, and the cry of hunting wolves further down the glen.
Curl up, Stormcracker … Sleep if you can … Soon we’ll be home, soon you’ll be safe …
Home … home … The dragon obediently settled down, Quenelda coiled within his tail. Tangnost also chose to stay with him to monitor his progress. The web was clipped into place. It was all done quickly, efficiently.
The four Imperials rose up and spread their wings, their pilots checking that they were in no danger of getting entangled in the traces. Root took off beside them on his scouting Thistle dragon; he waved to Quenelda.
A horn rang out, short, long, short, long. As dark fell across the Western Highlands once again, tussocks of grass and heather were flattened as the Imperial Blacks took off from the floor of the glen to hold a hover at fifty strides. Abseiling down the bellies of their mounts, dwarf engineers checked the loading of the cradle straps. Quenelda signalled that everything was comfortable.
Within moments, the dragons were skyborne and heading southwest towards Dragon Isle.
It had been a long, tiring ordeal. Quenelda had slept fitfully, the rising and falling of the cradle lulling her and Stormcracker to sleep, only for the traumatized dragon to shake her awake with his restless nightmares. Flying for three days barely pausing for rest, they finally swept round the Dragonspine Mountains and into the Sorcerers Glen at dawn. Skilfully piloted, the dragons skimmed low across the loch, their cargo almost brushing the caps of the waves. Closer and closer the dragons sped towards the sheer, thousand-foot cliffs of Dragon Isle, and still they didn’t slow. And then they were gone, as if the island had swallowed them whole.